


Numbers

by catness



Category: Lost
Genre: Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catness/pseuds/catness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Not really fanfiction, more like a meta-fanfiction.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> Not really fanfiction, more like a meta-fanfiction.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. 

These six numbers, alone and in various combinations, had been haunting Mark Callahan all his life. He was born on Apr 8, his given name had 4 characters and surname - 8. He had 4 birthmarks on his body. He used to live in building #15, apt. #16, and when he moved closer to his workplace, his new address was 23/42. The last 4 digits of his credit card were 1523, and of his SSN - 4216.

He tried to dismiss the coincidences as apophenia - seeing meaningful patterns in random data. Once, just for the hell of it, he used the numbers on a lottery ticket, but he didn't win anything. 

His reality shattered in a second when he heard the numbers - all six of them - from the TV screen. He never cared for countless and never-ending serials; that day he turned on the TV only because his Internet happened to be down and he was bored out of his wits. But from now on, his eyes were glued to the screen whenever an episode of LOST was aired.

Together with millions of fans, he searched for clues. The numbers were everywhere. Danielle's papers, Hurley's lottery, the radio transmissions from the island, the serial number of the hatch, the computer code entered by Desmond, not to mention hundreds of occurrences separately and in pairs. It could not be a mere coincidence. There had to be a meaning behind it - and in some bizarre way, it had to be related to the meaning of his own life. Mark waited for every new episode with trepidation, but the patterns only multiplied, overwhelming his mind with anxiety.

And then came season six - the season of solutions and disappointments. The numbers were nothing but a plot device, the afterlife angle was ridiculously contrived, and the ending was a huge anticlimax. But the actual choice of numbers, let alone their personal relevance to Mark, was still a mystery. One of the screenwriters mentioned that he had randomly picked a few numbers that came up in the previous series. Damon Lindelof, the executive producer, repeatedly stated that the meaning of the numbers will never be revealed. Mark trawled the Lostpedia, lost.com, lost.about.com, lost-media.com and dozens of other Internet sites to no avail. But somebody had to know something! And who's better to ask than those who were an integral part of the show? Mark took a vacation from his job as a bank teller (window #8) and left to Hollywood (flight #1516, seat #23).

***

His journey was a fiasco. Obviously Mark was not the only fan obsessed with LOST trivia, and the patience of the show creators was wearing thin. Perhaps if he were a writer or a journalist... but nobody wanted to waste their time on a nobody. Mr. Lindelof never returned his call, as well as everyone else with whom he had tried to secure an appointment. He kept hanging around and stalking the familiar actors, but it did not work out either. Josh Holloway (Sawyer) called him a sneaky freak and slammed the door in his face. Michelle Rodriguez (Ana Lucia Cortez) threatened to call the police. Dominic Monaghan (Charlie Pace) slapped his back and said "Forget it, dude, it's over, time to move on!" Matthew Fox (Jack Shepard) shoved a LOST promo booklet into his hands and disappeared in the crowd. The booklet contained just the boring basic information, including the disclaimer about LOST being a work of fiction, and any resemblance to actual events or people being merely coincidental. The only neat thing about the booklet was a unique number assigned to each copy. Mark's was #162342.

Only Michael Emerson (Benjamin Linus) took Mark's story close to heart. He patiently listened to Mark's ramblings as they sat in the hotel's cafeteria, and nodded, sipping coffee from a big mug, his slightly bulging eyes following Mark's agitated gesticulation. Then he said: 

"You are right, Mr. Callahan. There is indeed a conspiracy behind the show. You must understand, of course, that we're not supposed to talk about it - all of us had signed the nondisclosure agreement. But you are unusually observant and persistent, and I believe you can be trusted. I'll drop a word to my friend, professor Cuatro, who happens to stay in this same hotel. He ought to be able to shed some light on your problem. Please excuse me for a few minutes, this conversation is confidential." 

Mark watched the actor standing on the balcony and talking on his cellphone. He returned to the table bearing good news. "Mr. Cuatro is available and he's waiting for you now. Take the elevator to the 8th floor, room number #842. You'll remember or I'll write it down for you?"

"I'll remember," said Mark with a sigh.

***

In the room #842, he was greeted by a little dark-haired man in a three-piece suit. "Come in, come in, Mr. Callahan," said the man, eagerly shaking his hand. "Michael told me about you. Technically, I'm on vacation, but for a case like yours, I'm willing to make an exception. Now please sit down and tell me what's bothering you." He motioned Mark to an armchair.

Mark noticed a bunch of journals scattered on the coffee table near the armchair. "Journal of Contemporary Psychotherapy", "The American Journal of Psychiatry", "Clinical Psychology Review". A suspicion began to gnaw at him. "Excuse me, professor Cuatro," he said, "what exactly is the field you specialize in?"

"Paranoid schizophrenia, and it's doctor Cuatro. Don't worry, I won't charge you for this visit, because it is informal, and I'm curious about your case."

"I'm not crazy!" shouted Mark. "I don't know what Ben Linus, I mean Mr. Emerson, told you, but the numbers are not my delusion! They are everywhere! Even here - look!" He grabbed a water jug from the table and turned it over. There was a label on the bottom, with a printed barcode and a serial number #481516. 

"You see? You see?" He pushed the jug into the doctor's face. His fingers squeezed the handle so hard that it broke off. A fountain of water and glass shards splashed down on the carpet.

"Of course, of course, I see," said the doctor, backing away. "Now just relax, please." 

The door of the adjacent room swung open, letting in two bulky men in hospital gowns. "Do you need any assistance, doctor?" one of them asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid the patient is violent. Please restrain him while I apply the tranquilizer," said doctor Cuatro, extracting a syringe from his pocket.

With the force Mark never knew he possessed, he threw both paramedics on the floor and burst out of the room. 

He left Hollywood the same night. There was nothing to pursue here, and nobody to trust. He had to lie low and continue his quest on his own.

***

When Mark was fired from his job due to the clients' recurring complaints about mistakes in transactions and substituting one number for another, he took the news with relief. Now nothing prevented him from traveling to Manounou. The small and insignificant island in the Pacific Ocean was the closest body of land around the latitude 4.815n, longitude 162.342w, and Mark was convinced that if he would find the answer anywhere, it had to be there.

The moment he stepped on the beach, everything felt eerily familiar. The landscape, flora and fauna duplicated the Island almost exactly. He knew he was on the right track. Declining the offer of a native tour guide, he verified the direction and set off to the jungle.

Checking the compass readings and the landmarks which made sense only to him, he arrived at the spot he had marked previously on the map - a small grassy meadow, hidden behind the tall trees. He got the shovel from his backpack and started to dig. In about a quarter of an hour the shovel hit metal. The hatch! It was there! He frantically continued to dig, uncovering a huge metal hull. The top of the hull sported a door with a keypad and a handle. Without any hesitation, he entered 4,8,15,16,23,42 and turned the handle. The door opened.

The insides of the hatch looked markedly different from the Swan station. Everything was white, shining, sterile. But he instantly recognized the man sitting at the monitor - it was Desmond Hume. Well, of course it was the actor, Henry Ian Cusick, but Mark couldn't help but thinking of him as Desmond. 

"Hello, brother," said Desmond with a wide smile. "At last you made it."

"Mr. Cusick?" asked Mark uncertainly.

"No," said Desmond. "Unfortunately, my real name is not pronounceable with human vocal chords."

Mark gasped. "I knew it! The Island was created by aliens - that's where its magical properties come from - LOST is a documentary..."

"No, not really," said Desmond. "LOST is a complete fiction from start to end."

"But why..." Mark was stumped. "Why this island, the hatch, who are you? What about the numbers?"

"Oh yes, the numbers. Millions of fans were curious about them; thousands became obsessed with them; hundreds went to great lengths to pursue their obsession and bug the hell out of everyone who was in any way associated with the production of the series. But you were the only one motivated and resourceful enough to get here."

"So what is 'here'?"

"The end." Desmond pressed a button on the terminal, and the room was flooded with unnaturally bright yellow light. Mark felt his body stiffening and growing heavy. He budged his muscles, fighting the invisible pressure, but couldn't move an inch.

"What are you doing?" he shouted.

"I guess I owe you an explanation," said Desmond. "Galactica Probotix takes it as a personal responsibility to recall faulty products under any circumstances. And considering how well our robots masquerade as natives, it was next to impossible to find a faulty unit that had been accidentally shipped to a primitive planet where the usage of our technology is forbidden by the intergalactic safety protocols. We went into all the trouble of infiltrating a major TV network and planting ideas in right people's heads in order to create the TV series based around the robot's serial number. We figured that even with the false memories overriding its programming, it will be compelled to solve the puzzle and deliver itself into our hands."

"But what does it have to do with me? I am not a ro..." Mark's larynx fused shut. He watched in silent horror how his skin melted under the merciless yellow light, revealing the wires and printed circuit boards underneath.

"Sorry, brother," said Desmond. "I always was against giving service robots personalities. Especially to the models which are powered by the energy of probability fields. The pockets of coincidences they create around themselves tend to destabilize the neural circuits even in perfectly functioning units. Well, at least something good resulted out of this blunder - the civilization of Earth-42 was enriched with a great TV show which will fascinate the population for years!"

He pushed another button and spoke in the microphone. "Mission accomplished. The unit 4-8-15-16-23-42 is in the process of deactivation."

But Mark could not hear it anymore. His senses of smell, touch and taste were gone as well. His vision blurred. Colors washed away. The images transmitted to his visual cortex turned into a jumble of pixels which switched off one by one until only a line of black dots remained, steadily shrinking into nothingness.

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End file.
